We protect our fallout from all the sunny days. Every child is being born with a lead spoon in their mouth, every family is fat off the flesh of the dead. So it is written, scrawled on the charred, cracked surface of the old roads, the concrete tells the saga of auctioneers and human cargo. It was a harsh winter, but now the land has been razed and we shall take our harvest from the rubble of empires. Our new hymns are of unused carbon blown in on winds from the west.